


New York, New York

by withpractice_ff



Category: Gyakuten Saiban | Ace Attorney
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-16
Updated: 2010-11-16
Packaged: 2017-10-20 06:09:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/209584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withpractice_ff/pseuds/withpractice_ff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The loss of an old friend brings back memories of Edgeworth's childhood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	New York, New York

The phone rings, waking Phoenix with a start. He fumbles in the half-dark of the early morning for his cell, only to have his hand meet the smooth, sturdy mahogany of Edgeworth's nightstand instead of his own thrift store cube of particleboard. His cell phone, he remembers, is still in the pocket of his pants, somewhere on the bedroom floor. Beside him, Edgeworth reaches out for his own cell phone, chirping from the nighstand on his side of the bed.

"Edgeworth speaking," he says, his voice as clear as if it were four in the afternoon instead of four in the morning. Phoenix rests a hand on the other man's stomach, his eyes already falling shut again, ready to go back to sleep. But then he feels Edgeworth's body tense as he sits up, and he cracks his lids open, dismayed to see Edgeworth's lips curled into a deep frown. He's silent, listening to the voice on the other end of the line.

"I see," he says at last, using his courtroom voice. "I'm terribly sorry to hear that. You have my sincere condolences." There's a pause, then, "I'm afraid that might not be possible, given my--" Another pause. "Well that's very kind of you to say, but I don't think--" And another. "I will see what I can do. I'm afraid that's the best I can offer." A final pause, and then, his voice softening, "I'm so very sorry, Eloise. Your husband was a good man, and he meant a great deal to me."

He snaps his phone shut with a sigh, returning it to the nightstand before sinking back into the mattress. Watching him carefully, Phoenix asks, hesitant, "Is everything okay?"

Edgeworth doesn't answer right away, something Phoenix has grown accustomed to over the last few months. It frustrated him at first, waiting for Edgeworth to spit it out already, but now he knows to take advantage of these pauses, to watch Edgeworth's eyes, the curve of his lips, to glean the things his words leave out.

"Years ago, in my adolescence, I spent a summer under the tutelage of Prosecutor Ernest Costello. Mr. Costello died this morning of complications related to cancer."

"I'm sorry," Phoenix says, shifting his arm to circle Edgeworth's waist entirely, pulling their bodies closer.

Edgeworth shrugs, but the movement is stiff. "He was an old man who lived a full, prosperous life. The cancer hit him hard but fast, from my understanding."

"I'm sorry," Phoenix says again, because he doesn't know what else to say. He tightens his embrace of the other man, hoping to offer comfort.

"There are things more tragic than the quick death of an old man," Edgeworth says quietly, rolling away from Phoenix.

  


* * *

  


When Phoenix wakes for the second time that morning, he finds the bed beside him empty. He squints at the alarm clock through the sleep clinging to his lashes: nine o'clock. Reluctantly, he pulls himself from Edgeworth's plush mattress, a smile quirking his lips as he pushes his feet into the slippers Edgeworth has left at the foot of the bed for him. He makes his way downstairs in just the slippers and his boxers.

"I left the robe on the back of the door for you," Edgeworth chides as Phoenix enters the living room. He's already fully dressed, showered and shaven. Pess is sprawled lazily at his feet, acknowledging Phoenix with a slight huff of her nose.

"Like you don't enjoy the show," Phoenix says casually, moving to sit next to the other man on the couch. He bends down to scratch behind Pess' ears, and her tail thumps happily against the floor. "Did you eat yet?"

Edgeworth nods, already turning his attention back to the newspaper in his hands. "There's some cubed melon in the refrigerator, and there are bagels in the breadbox."

Both options sound delightful, but Phoenix lingers. "Do you want to talk about earlier?"

"There's nothing to talk about."

Phoenix stares at him for a moment, trying to judge if this is the right time to press the matter. Then his stomach grumbles--loudly--and he decides that it can wait at least until after breakfast.

  


* * *

  


"Were you close to Mr. Costello?" Phoenix asks, breaking their comfortable silence.

They're in the backyard, Edgeworth reading a book in one of the patio chairs, Phoenix rolling around in the grass with Pess. Phoenix lies with the cool earth at his back, Pess draped over his stomach, and they both look up at Edgeworth curiously.

Edgeworth frowns, but he marks his page in the book and then lowers it to his lap. "We lost touch over the years. I haven't seen him since shortly after I passed the Bar, although we would occasionally exchange letters."

"Oh."

Edgeworth's brow arcs. "Hm?"

"I just, I don't know. They called you at four in the morning to let you know. You call family and close friends at four in the morning. I guess I assumed that meant you were close."

"The Costellos live in New York," Edgeworth says, absently fingering the spine of his book. "Mrs. Costello has always been an early riser; I suspect she forgot I was in a timezone four hours behind her own--understandable, in her grief."

"Oh," Phoenix says again, then adds, "Still."

"Still what?"

"That's still pretty early."

Edgeworth sighs under the weight of Phoenix's gaze, knowing that the other man is willing to do this dance for as long as it takes.

"There was a time when Mr. Costello and I were quite close, and he was always a sentimental man. Although time pulled us apart, we continued to hold each other in the highest regard."

Phoenix nods, although Edgeworth knows well enough that his curious, nosy lover will not be satisfied with such scraps for long, if he even is now. Just as in court, Phoenix is never satisfied by anything less than the truth, a quality both admirable and maddening.

"The funeral is in New York?"

"Yes, on Monday."

"Do you..." he hesitates, knowing Edgeworth may resent his presumption, but then continues, "Do you want me to go with you?"

"That's kind of you to offer," Edgeworth says easily, and Phoenix lets go of the breath he'd been holding, "but I'm not going to the funeral."

"What? Why not?"

A look of genuine confusion crosses Edgeworth's face, and he asks, "Why would I?"

"Because you cared about him?"

Edgeworth shakes his head. "Funerals are for the mourning, not the dead. I do not need to fly across the country and interrupt my work in order to mourn."

Phoenix doesn't say anything, looking lost in thought. Just as Edgeworth goes to resume his reading, assuming the conversation is over, Phoenix says, "But what about Mrs. Costello? She just lost her husband. Imagine how good it would make her feel to see how loved he was, to see Miles Edgeworth fly across the country and interrupt his work to pay his respects."

Edgeworth frowns, staring openly at the man before him, who is still in so many ways a mystery. He asks, "Why is this so important to you?"

"Because it's important to _you_ ," Phoenix says. "Even if you don't realize it yet."

Edgeworth rolls his eyes, turning back to his book. But he says, "I'll think about it."

  


* * *

  


After lunch, Edgeworth disappears into his study to get some work done. Phoenix takes up the book Edgeworth had been reading earlier, and he's about a third of the way through it when the prosecutor reemerges.

"Okay," Edgeworth says, entering the living room.

Phoenix tips his head over the armrest, peering at him from behind the back of the couch. "Okay what?"

"We'll go to New York, to the funeral." Phoenix's eyebrows climb up his forehead, and Edgeworth misinterprets, adding in a rush, "That is, if you wish to accompany me. You are, of course, by no means obligated."

Phoenix rolls his eyes. "Of course I'll go."

He turns back to the book, and when Edgeworth moves to join him on the couch, he lifts his legs only long enough to stretch them over Edgeworth's lap as he sits. Edgeworth doesn't complain, resting his hands on Phoenix's calves, enjoying the feel of the coarse leg hair under his fingers. He lets them wander upward, stopping just inside of Phoenix's shorts.

"Don't try to distract me," Phoenix scolds. "I'm in the middle of a paragraph."

Edgeworth sighs, dropping his hands to his sides. Phoenix sneaks a glance up at him, eyes darting back to the book when Edgeworth looks over at him.

"Mr. Costel--Ernie," Edgeworth corrects himself, with the air of one who has made and corrected this mistake many times in the past, "was beloved. He believed in his work, and he cared deeply for the families of the victims in his cases. They will be spilling out into the street, all wanting to give him their final thanks for everything he did for them, for the closure and justice he afforded them. It will not take one man from Los Angeles to let Eloise know that her husband was loved and continues to be loved."

Phoenix frowns, resting the book on his chest. "Then why?"

Edgeworth lets his fingers again travel Phoenix's calves, an unconscious gesture this time, taking comfort in the presence of the body beneath his hands. He says, "It may be too late for Mr. Costello to accept my thanks, but that doesn't mean it's not worth giving."

  


* * *

  


"We could make a proper trip of it," Edgeworth says into the dark, his breath against Phoenix's neck.

"Mm?" Phoenix manages, already mostly asleep.

"It's been a long time since I've been to New York, it would be nice to see the city again."

"Miles Edgeworth, suggesting a vacation?" Phoenix asks, a little too tired to add the proper dose of sarcasm to the quip.

"Do you have an objection?" he asks, and Phoenix doesn't miss the apprehension in his voice, no matter how he tries to mask it.

"Just that I'm a pauper."

He can feel the man shaking his head behind him. "Don't be daft, Phoenix. You know I'll be happy to accept payment in the form of sexual favors."

"You're a class act, Miles," Phoenix says, his voice drifting as sleep moves in to claim him. "Never let anyone else you otherwise."

  


* * *

  


Edgeworth is a flurry of movement the next morning, fixing breakfast, making their travel arrangements, convincing Franziska to dog-sit, and packing with much greater speed and efficiency than Phoenix would have thought possible from a man who arranges his underwear drawer by color.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" Edgeworth asks when they're parked outside of Phoenix's apartment.

"Do I want to what, attend a funeral with you, offering you love and support, and then spend a few days in the most romantic city in the world?"

"Paris is the most romantic city in the world," Edgeworth corrects, stepping out of the car.

"I'll be the judge of that."

  


* * *

  


"Phoenix," Edgeworth snaps, laying back onto Phoenix's bed in exasperation. "You have three dress shirts: white, cream, and ivory. If you care for me at all, you will pick one and end my misery."

"Are you sure this suit will be okay?" Phoenix asks, slipping the jacket of his blue suit on over his shoulders, frowning at himself in the mirror.

"For the fifth time, yes, the suit is perfectly acceptable. It's also the only one you own, so I'm not entirely sure why you're behaving as though there are other options."

Phoenix fidgets with the buttons of the jacket, still eying the mirror. "I don't want to embarrass you."

Edgeworth tuts, then takes one of his long, thoughtful pauses, and Phoenix shifts nervously, waiting for his reply. Eventually he says, "I accept that you will occasionally embarrass me, as you have no doubt accepted that I will occasionally embarrass you. However, this is not one of those times. It's a nice enough suit, and anyone there who would judge your attire is not someone whose opinion concerns me."

Phoenix turns, moves to lie on the bed next to Edgeworth. He gives Edgeworth a chaste kiss, then props his head in his hand, looking at the other man. "You never embarrass me."

"You're a terrible liar," Edgeworth says, knowing they are both thinking of the incident at Maya's birthday, just a few weeks ago. Overwhelmed by the sheer volume of people gathered in the tiny burger joint, Edgeworth had disappeared for nearly half an hour, hiding in the coffee shop around the corner without telling anyone where he was going, his sudden anxiety too much to bear the thought of wading through the crowd to find Phoenix. When he returned, no one spoke of his absence, but the look in Maya's eyes told him she'd noticed and hadn't understood. Phoenix explained it to her later, after the festivities, in what was undoubtedly an awkward conversation.

"Still," he adds, lifting a hand to smooth gentle fingers over Phoenix's cheek, "that's kind of you to say."

  


* * *

  


At the gate, Phoenix paces the carpet in front of Edgeworth, sitting in one of the hard plastic chairs and reading the book they've been trading back and forth all weekend. He looks up at Phoenix irritably.

"Would you sit? Please?"

Phoenix stops his pacing but doesn't sit, standing in front of the other man. "I have a confession to make."

"You've never flown before," Edgeworth says dryly, not looking up from his book.

"How did you know?"

"Call it a lucky guess. Now, sit down and let me ease your worries."

This time Phoenix does as he's told, falling into the seat next to Edgeworth. "Yes, ease my worries."

"I have flown so many times that I have lost count, but I fly at least twice a year. And to be sure, I have had some extremely unpleasant flights--turbulence, delays, _murders_ \--" they both grimace at that last one "--but I have come out of them all unscathed. The much greater percentage of flights I've taken have been completely without incident."

Phoenix nods, but his apprehension remains, visible in the way his leg bounces in place, so Edgeworth continues, "Statistically, your chances of being in an aircraft accident are about one in eleven million. Your chances of being in a car accident? One in five thousand."

"So now I'm also afraid of cars. Perfect."

Edgeworth smiles, resting the book in his lap and turning to Phoenix. "Phoenix, it will be fine. There's no sense living in fear of what _might_ happen. You need to get across the country, and this is the fastest way to do it, and so you will board a plane today. There is, of course, the possibility that the plane may crash, but odds are significantly in your favor that it won't. Make your peace and you may even _enjoy_ it."

Phoenix considers his words for a moment, then asks, "Do you? Enjoy it, I mean?"

"Most often I find it a means to an end, but then sometimes I look out the window, seeing the land spread out so far below me, or the clouds thick around me, and I am awestruck and wondered, humbled by man's ability to create."

A smile finally works its way onto Phoenix's lips. "That's a better way to look at it."

"Worries eased?" Edgeworth asks, smiling back.

"Enough that I can stop wearing a hole in the carpet, at least."

"And really, that's all that I ask," Edgeworth says, lips still quirked as he turns back to his book.

  


* * *

  


Phoenix's nerves return during take off, and Edgeworth lets him wrap their hands together tightly, the force of his grip leaving tiny red crescents in the flesh of Edgeworth's palms. But once they're in the air, he relaxes, spending the first half of their five hour flight staring out the window, frequently tapping Edgeworth on the shoulder to point out a mountain range or the tiny speck of a pond. As the sky darkens, marring his view of the countryside below, he starts getting restless, which means he starts getting annoying, which lets Edgeworth know he is fully at ease.

"Come on," Phoenix repeats.

"I said you could have it once I've finished the chapter," Edgeworth says patiently, his eyes still on the page. "And you agreed."

"Yeah, but that was before I realized this chapter was a million pages long."

"I would be able to read much faster if you stopped bothering me, you realize."

Phoenix goes silent, and he remains silent until Edgeworth marks his page and hands him the book.

"You're the tops, you know that?" Phoenix ask rhetorically, grinning as he begins searching for his page.

Edgeworth hums non-commitally in response, reaching for his briefcase. A few hours left in the flight, these's yet time to get some work done.

  


* * *

  


"Miles," Phoenix says, dropping his bags at his feet. "This is too much."

"I don't often go on holiday," Edgeworth says, already unpacking his clothes into the closet, "so I like to indulge myself a bit when I do."

And the suite is, indeed, an indulgence. More like a small apartment, the space has a bedroom, living room, and small kitchenette, each room with a large window overlooking Central Park. The carpet beneath their feet is plush, the sheets on the bed are crisp, and there is a bottle of chilled champagne on the table in the living room.

If the bathroom is even half as extravagant as the rest of the suite, this is officially the best vacation ever.

"Miles!" he calls, standing in awe in the doorway of the bathroom. Edgeworth is carefully re-folding his socks as he unpacks them into a dresser drawer. He doesn't respond, trusting Phoenix to continue anyway, which he does: "There's a _jacuzzi_. Stop what you're doing, we're getting in there immediately."

Edgeworth tuts. "Unpack your suit so that it doesn't wrinkle."

Reluctantly, Phoenix pulls himself from the siren song of the jets. Rooting through his suitcase for the suit, he says, "After I hang this up, we are getting in that tub."

"Fair enough."

Edgeworth finishes the unpacking while Phoenix draws the bath. When he enters the bathroom, the air is warm and smells of orange and ginger, and Phoenix is already in the water, eyes closed as he relaxes with his back directly against one of the jets.

Edgeworth makes quick work of disrobing and joins Phoenix in the jacuzzi, sliding between the other man's legs, resting his back flush against Phoenix's chest. The water bubbles around him, easing away the lingering aches from their cross-country flight. But it's the solid warmth at his back that does far more to soothe his nerves, not that he'd ever admit as much out loud.

"Can we get room service?" Phoenix asks, his breath ghosting against Edgeworth's neck as his fingers trace a path up Edgeworth's sides.

"That had been my plan," he says, his voice a sigh. "I have no intention of leaving the suite tonight, unless there was something in particular you wished to do."

"No sir," Phoenix says, his arms coming around to circle Edgeworth's waist. "I am fully content to do nothing but soak and eat beef for the rest of the night."

  


* * *

  


After a late dinner, they lounge around in bed, Phoenix watching TV while Edgeworth maps out a loose itinerary for the rest of the week, occassionally seeking input from Phoenix, who hums agreeably at all of Edgeworth's suggestions.

"There," Edgeworth says with an air of satisfaction, closing the lid of his laptop. Phoenix grins, flipping off the television.

"Finally," he says, smiling, and proceeds to pounce on the other man.

Edgeworth has no complaints.

  


* * *

  


Long after Phoenix falls asleep, Edgeworth lies awake, focusing on the even breathing of the man lying next to him so that his mind does not wander down a path from which there is no return.

  


* * *

  


Edgeworth wakes him just after eight. They share a quick breakfast, then hustle about the suite getting ready. Edgeworth, although the significantly more fastidious of the two, finishes his preparations well before Phoenix, a frequent turn of events that both of them find endlessly irritating.

"I'm almost ready," Phoenix promises more than once. Edgeworth nods without looking up from his reading. He finishes two chapters before Phoenix is ready to go.

It's not until they're in the cab that Phoenix notices that Edgeworth has been particularly quiet. Of course, given the circumstances, he supposes that's normal. Refreshingly normal, now that he thinks about it. Still, as he watches the other man look out the window, tipping his head slightly to follow the skyline, Phoenix can't help but wonder what he's thinking.

Outside of the funeral home, Edgeworth stops on the sidewalk, just short of the steps. For a moment there is a wild, lost look in his eyes, and Phoenix rests a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"You okay?"

Edgeworth pulls awkwardly at the sleeves of his suit--a dark maroon three piece with a crisp white button-up underneath, complemented with a thin black tie instead of his usual cravat; Phoenix thinks he looks absolutely stunning, but even he knows it's not the time for such observations. He looks up at the sky, yet overcast from yesterday's rains, and says, "I know it's foolish, but I feel suddenly quite nervous."

"It's not foolish," Phoenix says quietly, taking a step forward, his hand running casually down Edgeworth's arm to slide into his hand, their fingers lacing together. Edgeworth nods and starts his assent of the stairs. It's not until they enter the Costello's room than he relinquishes Phoenix's hand.

The room is large, filled near to the brim with mourners, much as Edgeworth predicted. They hover by the door for a moment as Edgeworth scans the room, letting out a sigh of relief when his eyes find their target.

"Follow me," he says, and he doesn't wait for a response before insinuating himself into the crowd. When Phoenix catches up to him, he finds him with a petite elderly woman wrapped around his neck.

"I didn't think you'd come," she says, tears catching in the lashes of her closed eyes.

"I almost didn't," Edgeworth admits, looking only a little discomforted by the woman clinging onto him. "I wasn't sure you'd be happy to see me."

She releases her grip, backing up to look him in the eyes. The reprimand is clear on her face and in her voice as she scolds, "Miles Edgeworth, there is no circumstance under which I would not be pleased to see you."

Edgeworth dips his head, properly chastised. Noticing Phoenix, he says, "Eloise, I'd like you to meet my partner, Phoenix Wright. Phoenix, this is Eloise Costello."

Eloise smiles, blinking away the remnants of her tears, and clasps both of Phoenix's hands in her own. "It's a pleasure to meet you, my dear."

Phoenix smiles and nods, unsure of what to say. Fortunately he doesn't have to think of anything, because Edgeworth says, "I have something for you, Eloise."

Hands still wrapped around Phoenix's, she looks over at Edgeworth, watching as he pulls a slender text from the breast pocket of his suit. She squints at it, and when recognition hits, her eyes go wide. She drops Phoenix's hands, accepting the aged copy of Thoreau's _Civil Disobedience_ from Edgeworth.

"I can't believe you still have this," she says, her voice catching in her throat. The tears return as she flips to the title page, where there is a short, messy inscription that Phoenix can't read from his angle. Her fingers ghost over the ink, and she says, "This was meant for you, not me."

"I think I did not quite live up to the hopes implied by such a gift," Edgeworth says quietly, eyes sliding to the ground.

Eloise tsks, reluctantly moving her eyes from the book, a lost treasure so suddenly recovered. "Life may have tried to lead you astray, but still you found your path."

She closes the book, running a loving hand over the cover before holding it out to Edgeworth. "Ernie wanted you to have this. Keep it, as a memento."

For a moment, Phoenix thinks Edgeworth might do just that, but then he shakes his head. "As much as it means to me, it means more that you have it. It would honor me if you would accept."

Eloise tries her best to look sour, but there's no succeeding with the gratitude evident in her eyes.

"Come," she says, still clutching the book to her chest like something sacred. She leads them forward, and the crowds break around her, making way for Ernie Costello's widow, until they arrive at the coffin at the front of the room.

They've both been to their share of funerals, but open caskets never fail to make Phoenix uncomfortable; he wonders if Miles feels the same way. He hangs back as the other two step forward to the casket. Eloise speaks to her husband for a moment, holding Edgeworth's hand, then moves away to give the young prosecutor some privacy.

"It's been the better part of a decade since Ernie and I have seen Miles," she says, coming to stand next to Phoenix. "He's been missed."

Phoenix watches Edgeworth, head bent over the deceased, and he can't help it, the question spills out of his lips unbidden: "What kept you apart?"

The old woman shakes her head. "That's a question for young Miles, my dear."

And then Edgeworth walks over to them, preventing any further discussion on the matter. Eloise hugs him again, her grip firm and warm, and stands on her tip-toes to give him a kiss on his forehead before excusing herself--there's so many people left for her to see.

"She seems lovely," Phoenix says, watching her disappear into the crowd.

Edgeworth nods stiffly, and his voice wavers ever so slightly when he affirms, "She is."

They manage to find seats at the back of the room, and Edgeworth is quiet as they wait for the wake to end and the sevice to start, lost in his own head. Phoenix listens to the conversations buzzing around him, so many people thankful for Ernie's prosecution, families he helped stitch back together by bringing criminals to justice, even if those families could never truly be made whole.

It's strange, hearing so much love and gratitude for the other side of the bench. It makes him more determined that ever to chose his clients carefully, to never defend the truly guilty.

When the pastor enters, moving to the front of the room, the gathered mourners hush, finding seats or standing room in the back. Phoenix steals a look at Edgeworth out of the corner of his eye, checking, and the man looks as he always does, calm and collected. Still, knowing better than to trust Edgeworth's carefully constructed façade, he slips his hand into Edgeworth's, and neither of them let go until the pastor has said his final prayer.

  


* * *

  


Eloise catches them before they make their exit, insisting they get together later in the week to properly catch up. Phoenix doesn't miss the apprehension in Edgeworth's eyes, but if Eloise notices, she doesn't react. After a minute or two of prodding, she's able to get Edgeworth to agree to dinner on Wednesday evening.

Outside, on the street, Phoenix stretches widely, breathing in the autumn air while Edgeworth hails a taxi.

They head back to the hotel to change. Phoenix takes his time in divesting Edgeworth of his clothing, treating the articles and the man within with a certain amount of reverence. Edgeworth shakes, body shivering under the scrutiny, and Phoenix pretends not to notice, keeping his focus on carefully freeing each of Edgeworth's buttons, of sliding the fabric down Edgeworth's arms and onto the floor.

When Phoenix starts on his belt, Edgeworth says, his voice trembling, "I don't think I can do this right now."

"That's fine," Phoenix says, releasing the belt to pull his own shirt over his head. "Let's lie down."

Edgeworth moves to the bed, and Phoenix follows, spooning up behind the other man, his chest pressed against Edgeworth's back, skin on skin. They lie curled together in the center of the bed, wrapped in silence, and then Phoenix says, "Tell me about Mr. Costello."

Edgeworth takes a deep breath, and Phoenix waits, and eventually Edgeworth says, "Mr. Costello was an extremely prominent New York prosecutor, easily one of the most powerful living influences on the justice system in New York state. He worked in law for nearly forty years, devoting himself primarily to criminal cases, the most notable of which was undoubtedly Harvey vs. Grant. Recently he'd retired, professoring at NYU."

Phoenix waits still, but Edgeworth doesn't continue, so he says, "I wasn't looking for his dossier."

Edgeworth takes one of Phoenix's hands in both of his own, fingers tracing the lines of Phoenix's palm. At length he says, "It's strange, because my memories of him are years old now, tainted by age even before his death. I was fourteen when last we truly knew each other, and that seems a lifetime ago now."

"Well, tell me what you do remember."

"He was very passionate and very kind. He taught me a lot of very important things that I promptly forgot, rediscovering them only much later in life."

"Sounds like a very teen-aged thing to do," Phoenix says kindly. Edgeworth tenses in his embrace.

"Yes, I suppose so," he says dryly, an impersonal edge to his voice, closing up just as quickly as he'd let down his guard. He moves out of Phoenix's arms, to his feet, and says, "Now, let's not spend the entire afternoon moping around in bed."

  


* * *

  


The afternoon is crisp but pleasant, and they get their lunch from a street vendor--something Edgeworth would never do, Phoenix knows, if he weren't on vacation, trying to experience in some small way the life of a local--taking their chicken gyros to a bench just inside the park, thick stands of trees muting the sounds of the bustling street beyond. Phoenix smiles, watching Edgeworth try to figure out how to eat the thing without getting white sauce on his face.

"I think you just have to commit to getting a little messy," Phoenix says, and then takes a healthy bite to illustrate, coming away with sauce dotting his cheeks.

"I hope it at least tastes good," Edgeworth comments, wiping away the mess from Phoenix's face as the man continues to chew.

"Delicious," Phoenix assures him around a mouthful of chicken and sauteed onions.

Edgeworth takes a delicate bite of his gyro, managing to avoid anything worse than a little excess sauce at the corner of his lips. His tongue darts out to catch the wayward sauce, and after he swallows he agrees, "It is indeed quite good, if a bit of a challenge to actually eat."

After lunch, they walk along the west side of the park to the Museum of Natural History, chatting easily as they go.

"Whoa," Phoenix says as the building comes into view. "It's _huge_."

"Yes," Edgeworth says, smiling faintly, "it's one of the biggest museums in the world."

Inside, Phoenix pours over the museum map, trying to plot their course.

"What do you want to see, the dinosaurs? And we've got to do the ocean life exhibit, right? They've got that giant whale."

"As I recall, it's actually a bit smaller than an actual blue whale," Edgeworth notes.

"It weighs twenty-one thousand pounds," Phoenix says, reading the pamphlet. "It's giant."

So they head to the Milstein Hall of Ocean Life to see this giant whale. The hall is huge, the large open space in the center filled by museum goers, families and tourists standing under the ninety-four foot blue whale that dominates the room, staring up at its epic white belly.

"Giant," Phoenix repeats, and hurries to get under it himself, Edgeworth trailing after him fondly. Together they stand under the whale, titling their heads all the way back to stare straight up at its barnacled belly until they both feel dizzy, the blood rushing to their heads.

  


* * *

  


For dinner they go to this little Italian joint in the neighborhood--ZAGAT rated; Edgeworth picked up this year's edition in the airport and spent a good portion of the previous night poring over its pages--and enjoy a slow bottle of red wine with their meal. The conversation is light, Edgeworth recalling stories of his short time in the city during his youth: getting lost coming home from a string quartet performance and ending up spending a pleasant hour waking the streets of Park Slope until finally ending up on the Costello's doorstep; spending an afternoon reading in Prospect Park, only he was so absorbed in his book that his afternoon bled well into the evening, and he nearly missed supper, Mrs. Costello's amazing stuffed shells; taking early morning walks around the neighborhood, sneaking back in just before breakfast, and the Costello's--terrible actors, the both of them--pretending they hadn't heard him creep back inside.

Phoenix can't help but notice that none of these stories make more than casual mention of either of the Costellos. But he doesn't mention it, and instead he says, grinning widely, "Mr. Costello must have been pretty brave, leaving a teenager to his own devices like that."

"He was an easy going man," Edgeworth says, his voice warm in remembrance. "And he thought a little independence was just as important to my career as my studies."

They smile at each other, but then Edgeworth's eyes slide away, and Phoenix's lips curve into a thoughtful frown. Even in this happy moment, beside these beloved memories, the specter of Manfred hangs over their shoulders, a stark contrast to Mr. Costello, a man Edgeworth describes with such affection. There is no need to say that Manfred--cold, calculating, controlling Manfred von Karma--was nothing like Mr. and Mrs. Costello, never gave Edgeworth so much freedom, never let him believe he was _worthy_ of such freedom, of the opportunity to make mistakes.

There is no need to say it, because neither of them can think of anything else.

For a moment, the weight of everything unspoken hangs heavy in the air between them. But then it passes, and Edgeworth takes another sip of his wine, looks up at Phoenix with no hint of sadness in his eyes, and smoothly changes the subject, asking Phoenix if he ever went on an extended trip in his youth, to visit family, perhaps, or maybe to summer camp.

Phoenix smiles, shaking his head. No, he never went to summer camp, and his entire family lives in a twenty mile radius of LA. Edgeworth's eyebrows jut up his forehead in mock horror, and Phoenix laughs, and though he's not finished with what was left unsaid, he knows that pushing Edgeworth now would be fruitless.

If there is one thing that life with Miles Edgeworth is teaching him, it's patience.

  


* * *

  


They get a slow start the next morning, having spent several hours at the hotel bar after returning from dinner, the time slipping by unnoticed as they talked into the night. Phoenix rolls lazily beneath the sheets, enjoying the smooth silk and the warmth of the sleeping man beside him. He slides an arm over Edgeworth's waist, and the other man stirs, slowly blinking awake.

"What time is it?" he asks, trying to look over Phoenix's body as the man moves closer, draping himself over Edgeworth's torso.

"Late, probably," Phoenix mumbles against Edgeworth's neck. His weight on Edgeworth's chest is heavy, though not unpleasant. "The sun's been up for a while."

"If you'd get off of me for a second, I could check the clock."

"Pffft. We're on vacation. We don't need _clocks_."

Edgeworth considers this for a moment, looking at Phoenix with some derision. But then a smile quirks his lips, and he says, "You know, perhaps you're right."

And then he leans in for a kiss, and neither of them worry about the hour for some time.

  


* * *

  


After a light brunch in the cafe down the block, they make their way over to Times Square. Edgeworth makes to hail a cab, but Phoenix shakes his head and they take the subway instead.

"Like true New Yorkers," Phoenix says once they're in the over-airconditioned car, to which Edgeworth replies, trying to tune out the screeching of the wheels as they round a bend, "Not the ones with money."

They'd been hoping to beat the after work crowds, and they do manage that, but even so the place is absolutely teeming with people. Phoenix assumes they're mostly tourists, and the cameras many in the crowd are holding supports such an assumption.

He looks to Edgeworth, concerned, wondering if this particular adventure is one they'll have to abandon before they even start. And Edgeworth does seem a bit ill at ease, eying the sea of humanity warily, but then he notices Phoenix watching him and says, "I'll be fine."

"You sure? Because while I would enjoy seeing a giant M&M, I certainly don't _need_ to."

Edgeworth nods curlty, dismissing Phoenix's concern with a wave of his hand, and together they brave the crowd.

  


* * *

  


"Crap," Phoenix says, frowning into the closet.

Edgeworth, relaxing in bed with the _Times_ , looks over with curiosity. "What's wrong?"

"I don't have anything to wear to dinner tomorrow."

Edgeworth turns back to the paper. "That's funny, because I see a closet full of clothes in front of you."

"Yeah, but it's all t-shirts," Phoenix complains. "And she already saw me in my suit..."

"I think you're putting too much thought into this."

Phoenix turns, standing in the doorway of the closet in his boxers and a pair of black socks, suspicion tweaking his brow. "What are _you_ wearing tomorrow?"

"The amaranth button-up with my charcoal dress pants," he says immediately. Phoenix looks at him expectantly, and though Edgeworth isn't looking at him, he can feel the intensity of the glare. So he adds, "Which is akin to how I dress every day."

"It's not my fault you don't believe in jeans," Phoenix whines, shuffling over to the bed. He flops onto the mattress next to Edgeworth, wriggling until he's in position to rest his head in the man's lap. "I don't want to be the only one not dressed up."

"Do you want to borrow one of my shirts?" Edgeworth asks, only a little sarcastic.

"Then what are you gonna wear?"

"I always pack a spare set of clothes."

"Hm," Phoenix hums, considering. "What about pants?"

Edgeworth puts down his paper and rolls his eyes, saying, "Now you're just being difficult."

  


* * *

  


Edgeworth wakes early the next morning. The temptation to rouse Phoenix is high--the sound of the other man's voice would be a welcome end to so much silence--but he resists, instead moving quietly out of the bedroom and into the kitchen. He puts a kettle on to boil and is thankful for the distraction of prepping the tea, how it keeps his mind from wandering.

Once the tea's brewed, he fills one of the delicate flowered teacups and walks over to the window, staring out into the park and losing himself in his thoughts.

He has to be alone like this sometimes. Phoenix thinks it's that he _wants_ to be alone--and true enough, there was a time, early in their relationship, when he did--rather than _needs_ it.

Edgeworth has come to realize that he'd rather never be alone, would rather have Phoenix's constant chatter in his ear, would rather always have the other man's comforting warmth at his back.

He's never had a partner before, someone who accepted him so completely, and the experience is intoxicating, addicting. He knows that if he doesn't take these moments to himself, if he doesn't keep a certain amount of distance, he will forget _how_ to be alone, and the thought terrifies him.

The though terrifies him, because someday, he's relatively sure, Phoenix will leave him. And what will he do then, if he allows himself to be left with only the vestiges of his former life, his former self? He must remember how to be by himself, so he can survive once he is alone again.

He is thinking these unpleasant thoughts when Phoenix emerges from the bedroom, still rumpled from sleep. Edgeworth turns at the sound of his footsteps on the soft, wine-colored carpet, and the thoughtful frown is gone from his lips by the time he faces Phoenix, replaced with an affectionate smile.

"Good morning."

"G'mornin'," Phoenix mumbles, blinking around the room. "What time is it? Why didn't you wake me up?"

"It's about nine. I didn't want to leave before rush hour, so I figured better to let you sleep," he says, and it's only partially a lie.

Phoenix nods, appeased, and gives Edgeworth a quick kiss on the cheek before disappearing into the bathroom.

  


* * *

  


"You look good," Edgeworth says.

And Phoenix does look good, in his jeans and one of Edgeworth's blue-grey--"Cornflower," Edgeworth corrects--dress shirts, sleeves rolled up to his elbows and the top two buttons open, exposing the hollow of his throat.

Phoenix's vanity allows him one more glance in the mirror, running a last hand through his spikes, before turning away.

"Alright," he says with a grin, "Let's hit the town!"

  


* * *

  


They spend their afternoon in Brooklyn, in the area Phoenix is taking great delight in referring to as Edgeworth's "old stomping grounds." They visit the Brooklyn Museum, and Edgeworth spends nearly an hour on the Rodin installation, Phoenix trailing quietly behind him, staring at the dark, stark statues and trying to figure out what Edgeworth finds so entrancing.

They get lunch in a wine bar just off the parkway, making idle conversation about the pieces they saw at the museum, the artists they particularly liked, and Phoenix does not comment on the far-away look in Edgeworth's eye that appears whenever the conversation lulls.

"We could go to the park," Edgeworth says, blinking into the sunlight as they step out onto the sidewalk. "Or we could walk over to Park Slope; it's not far, and I'm relatively sure I can remember the way."

"You spent a lot of time over here?" Phoenix asks, sensing an opening.

"A fair amount," Edgeworth says with a shrug. He starts walking back toward the parkway, toward Prospect Park, and Phoenix falls into step beside him. For a moment, it seems like that might be all he says on the matter, but then he continues, "There used to always be softball games in the park on the weekends; I assume there still are, neighborhood leagues and the like. Mr. Costello played for a weekend league with a bunch of other lawyers--said it was a good networking tool, but really, I think he just liked the excuse to get outside for a bit every Sunday."

"And what, you were his bat boy?" Phoenix asks smiling.

Edgeworth chuckles a little. "Oh, he would have loved that. But no, I could never muster too much interest in the sport. However, like Mr. Cost-- _Ernie_ I enjoyed the excuse to be outside, not that I needed it, living with the Costellos..."

He trails off, and Phoenix can tell he's about to lose him, so he asks, for want of something to say, "So what did you do in the park, while Mr. Costello played ball?"

"Studied, mostly," Edgeworth says, his voice dropping slightly. "Eloise would often come with us, and she'd hound me about it, insisting I relax for a bit. Some habits are hard to break, however."

They lapse into silence, Phoenix unsure of what to say and Edgeworth lost in his thoughts. Edgeworth closes in on himself as they walk, getting lost in some memory where Phoenix can't reach him. And Phoenix wants to reach out to him, to wrap him tightly in his arms and make him feel protected, loved, to free him from whatever is responsible for the haunted look in his eyes.

So he does reach out, hooking his arm through Edgeworth's. Normally the man would shrug off such a public display of affection, embarrassed. But here, in this city where no one knows their names, he does not pull away.

  


* * *

  


"Miles!" Eloise exclaims, wrapping him in a hug. If she notices how Edgeworth tenses in her arms, she doesn't acknowledge it, embracing him just as warmly as when she first saw him on Monday. "And Phoenix!" she says with just as much enthusiasm, sweeping Phoenix up in a hug of his own. Awkward, he gives her a friendly pat on the back. "Well come in, come in!" she says, ushering the men into the house.

It's a nice house--finely furnished, but also homey, lived in. Fresh flowers cover every flat surface in the foyer, gifts from fellow mourners. Eloise takes the bottle of wine the men brought and ushers them into the sitting room, telling them she'll just be a moment, she'll pour them all some wine and bring out the hors d'oeuvres.

Phoenix smiles, thinking of a young Miles in this very room, poring over case law or studying foreign courts. Edgeworth raises an eyebrow in his direction, clearly wondering what he's thinking, and Phoenix shakes his head, clearing away his imagined memories.

"Well!" Eloise says, entering the room. She's got a tray in each hand and their bottle of red tucked under her arm. Both men jump up to assist her, and before she can protest, they've each got one of the trays, resting them on the coffee table.

"Did you make crab wontons?" Edgeworth asks, eying one of the platters with interest.

"Your favorite, right?" she asks rhetorically. Edgeworth nods, popping one of the morsels into his mouth. She smiles proudly when his eyes light up, pleased.

"You have outdone yourself, Eloise." Behind him, curious, Phoenix snags a wonton as he takes a seat on the couch.

"Just wait until you see what else is coming. I've been in the kitchen all afternoon."

Edgeworth frowns. "You shouldn't have put yourself through such trouble."

She waves a dismissive hand at him. "Pshaw. You know I love to cook, and it's been nice to have something to do with myself."

Phoenix watches as Edgeworth's lips thin, his frown morphing into something pained. Phoenix reaches for him, curls his fingers around Edgeworth's and tugs gently, guiding him down to the couch.

They make small talk as they make their way through the hors d'oeuvres, Eloise skillfully guiding the conversation, asking them about their time in New York, their flight from California. She avoids any topics that may be uncomfortable or controversial, and Phoenix realizes--truly understands--for the first time that this is someone who _knows_ Miles, knows where his boundaries are, knows how to keep him talking.

There's a beeping from somewhere deep in the house as they're finishing their second glass of wine, and Eloise jumps up from her seat.

"That'll be the roast! Miles, will you escort Phoenix to the dinning room?"

Edgeworth gives her a nod, and she dashes out of the room, disappearing down the hall.

  


* * *

  


"So what do you do, Ms. Costello?" Phoenix asks. They're half-way through dinner, Phoenix indulging in his second helping of mash potatoes.

"Oh, it's silly," she says, taking a sip of her drink. "If you can believe it, I write children's books."

"You've probably heard of her," Miles says mildly, a smirk quirking his lips.

"Don't tease the boy," Eloise scolds. Turning back to Phoenix, she explains, "I write under a pseudonym. _Madame Lavender Lace_."

"Seriously?" Phoenix asks, and Miles has to laugh at the star-struck look in his eyes. "I know a little girl who is absolutely in love with Bella Bunnington. I think we must've read _Escape to the Bunny Patch_ literally thirty times. In one weekend."

"Such a flatter," she says with a dismissive wave of her hand, but she's smiling, proud. "And what about you, Phoenix? You said you were Miles' partner? How long have you been prosecuting?"

Feeling his cheeks go red, Phoenix looks to Edgeworth. The other man simply shrugs, so he says, "Actually, I'm a defense attorney. Miles and I are, uh, life... partners?"

Edgeworth shakes his head, muttering, "Ridiculous."

Across the table, Eloise's eyes go wide. She looks to Edgeworth, and a slow, knowing smile spreads her lips. "So you _were_ seeing the Jacobs boy!"

Edgeworth nearly chokes on his bite of buttered roll. After managing to swallow, he stutters, "What do you--? I mean, how did you--?

Eloise laughs, shaking her head fondly. "I said as much to Ernie, but he thought I was being a Nosey Nelly and reading too much into it. But I was right, wasn't I!"

He takes a sip of his water, composing himself, and finally manages to ask, "How did you know?"

"A woman has her ways," she says mysteriously, looking self-satisfied. Then, grinning, she adds, "And I saw him kiss you on the cheek, once."

If he were still chewing on something, Phoenix is relatively sure Edgeworth would actually choke on it this time. Burying his face in his hands, he mumbles, "Oh lord. How utterly mortifying."

"So, wait," Phoenix says, delighted by Miles' embarrassment but also more than a little confused. "Who is the Jacobs boy?"

"Do not say a word to him," Edgeworth instructs, and at the same time Eloise begins, "Steven Jacobs, son of Sophie and Clark, professors over at Columbia. A handsome lad, if a bit gangly; but weren't we all, at that age? Wanted to be a doctor when he grew up--and he did, too! Works over at New York Presbyterian. He'd show up in the afternoons asking after Miles, but our boy was always too busy, up in his room studying or out and about with Ernie. _Except_ ," she says, turning a twinkling eye to Edgeworth, "those early mornings when you'd sneak out to meet him!"

"You take as much delight in humiliating me as he does, don't you?" Edgeworth asks, but it falls on deaf ears.

"You were sneaking out to meet a _boy?_ " Phoenix asks, completely amused.

"I should clarify that we were not 'seeing' each other. It was a crush--children playing at love--and nothing more."

"But he kissed your _cheek_ ," Phoenix goads, and Eloise laughs, hiding her smile behind her hand when Edgeworth shoots a toothless glare in her direction.

Edgeworth blushes furiously. "He was showing me around the neighborhood."

"And _wooing_ you," Phoenix adds, smirking.

Eloise laughs again, but there's something sad in her eyes. Edgeworth doesn't miss it.

"What's wrong?"

Her smile falters, but she's quick to fix it back in place. "Nothing, nothing. I was just thinking how I'd like to give Ernie a nice big 'I told you so' right about now."

Phoenix shovels a forkful of mashed potatoes in his mouth, uncomfortable. He's relieved and surprised when Edgeworth says easily, "And I'm sure he's glad to have escaped it."

There is a split second in with Eloise looks like she may burst into tears, but then she shakes her head, reaches across the table to give Edgeworth a well-deserved smack on the arm.

"Terrible," she says fondly. "You always were a smart-ass."

"Says the pot to the kettle," Edgeworth says lightly, and then she's laughing again.

  


* * *

  


"Ernie used get so flustered! Do you remember?" she asks Miles. He nods, and in unison they mimic, "Someone oughta put a bell on that cat!"

They both laugh, and Phoenix smiles, an outsider content to enjoy the warmth of someone else's memory. They've moved back to the sitting room, and an empty bottle of dessert wine sits on the coffee table in front of them.

"He really missed you, you know," Eloise says, serious, when the laughter dies down.

Edgeworth frowns, looking away. He says, quietly, "It was an error on my part, not coming out here sooner."

"There's no sense dwelling on the past. _You_ used to tell _me_ that, in fact." Edgeworth brings an arm up to wrap across his chest, looking further disquieted, and Eloise continues, "He was so proud of you, you know."

Edgeworth looks up at her, doubt and confusion clear in his eyes. "I find that incomprehensible."

Eloise frowns, something knowing in the set of her lips. "He never lost his faith in you, Miles; neither of us did. If you didn't have your faults and failures, you wouldn't be human. No one ever condemned you for being as fallible as the rest of us."

"After the Skye case," Edgeworth says at length, the words coming slow, "all I could think was how glad I was my father wasn't alive to see it. But you and Ernie..."

"--have always, unwaveringly loved you," she finishes for him, her eyes shinning. And when she reaches out to rest a hand on Edgeworth's shoulder, he covers it with his own, grasping her fingers tightly.

  


* * *

  


It's their last day in New York. They've taken a breakfast of cheese and french bread into the park, and the morning is quiet.

"Can I ask you something?" Phoenix asks, watching as Edgeworth tears a bite from the crust of his bread, tosses it to the squirrel across the path.

"That is, perhaps, my least favorite question in the world."

Phoenix sighs. Unwilling to argue semantics, he continues, "Why were you sent to stay with them? I mean, I know Mr. Costello was this famous, influential prosecutor, but they don't exactly seem like von Karma's sort of people. No offense."

Edgeworth surrenders another bit of crust to the squirrel, now at his feet. He's no fool; he knows this is a conversation Phoenix has been waiting all week to begin. And now, after an emotional few days, he senses that Edgeworth's defenses are weakened, that he's feeling nostalgic--that he is, perhaps, ready to talk. And this irritates Edgeworth to no end, that he should be so transparent, and that Phoenix should take so little shame in exploiting these holes in his emotional armor.

Still, he does want to talk about it; as infuriating as it may be, Phoenix is not wrong in that. So he says, hesitantly, "I was meant to be studying under Manfred himself. We had been in the States for two weeks when he was suddenly called back to Germany. I was originally slated to stay with the High Prosecutor instead, but that fell through almost immediately. He made the arrangements with the Costello's as he was waiting at the boarding gate for his flight back. My stay was meant to last but a few weeks, but circumstances conspired to extend my stay for several months."

"What happened?"

He turns to regard Phoenix for a moment, a deadly serious look about him. "What I'm about to tell you, you can repeat to no one."

"Okay."

"I mean it, Wright," Edgeworth says sharply. "I do not tell you this lightly."

Phoenix nods, doing his best to convey his sincerity. "I understand."

Edgeworth leans back with a nod, satisfied. "There was a... _situation_. With Franziska. I wasn't even supposed to know that much, but Manfred got the call on the road, and the back of a Lincoln does not allow for much privacy. His language was purposely vague, but it wasn't hard to piece things together; Franziska had been quietly furious in the weeks before our departure, and I was not surprised she allowed herself to implode once free of Manfred's watchful eye.

"It is unclear to me what transpired after that. Manfred never spoke of it; when he left, he said he'd been called back on business, though I suspect he knew I wasn't fooled. And when I next saw Franziska, she was the same wild mare I'd left in Germany."

"So what do you think happened?"

"It's hard to say," Edgeworth says with a frown. "I strongly suspect she was at least briefly institutionalized. Whether or not that was necessary..." He shrugs, then continues, "Her nannies and tutors were never particularly good at understanding her."

"I'm sorry," Phoenix says. "That must have been difficult."

"Manfred used to say that there was no merit in dwelling on life's setbacks, that regret could never lead you to victory." He laughs--a rueful, bitter sound--and shakes his head. "If only he'd followed his own advice, hm?"

They lapse into silence for a moment, the muted sound of passing traffic and the chirping of the birds rushing in to fill quiet. Phoenix knows that now is not the time to ask questions; now is the time to let Edgeworth say whatever it is he's been needing to say since receiving that first phone call from Eloise on Saturday night.

"Manfred hated that I'd taken such a shine to the Costellos," Edgeworth says eventually, tossing the last of his bread across the path. The squirrel follows its arc, dashing off after it. He says, "Of course, I knew before his first disapproving frown that he'd be disappointed that I'd allowed myself to be so taken in by them. I thought myself weak, allowing them to so deeply influence me, to have me questioning so many of the things that Manfred had taught me, and he was only too happy to reinforce those feelings once I returned to Germany."

Edgeworth frowns, looking off into the distance. Phoenix prompts, "What happened?"

"Very little. The Costellos had taken me in like a son, and my time with them was undoubtedly the happiest of my teenage years. Mr. Costello particularly took an interest in me, given our shared passion for the law. He saw great potential in me, and he showed me a vision of law and justice that I had not seen since my father died. And all it took for me to turn my back on them was one pointed word from Manfred."

"You were just a kid," Phoenix says, thinking of a fourteen year old Miles and overcome with the need to protect him. "Manfred abused your trust in him."

Edgeworth shakes his head dismissively. "Be that as it may, the Costellos never stopped trying to reach out to me, even as my career veered further and further down the path to darkness, and never once did I reach back. Manfred and I would laugh over their letters; how misguided they were, to think they might move the heart of a von Karma." A disgusted frown twists his lips. "Of course, I was never a von Karma."

"And their letters did move you."

Edgeworth nods, a stilted movement. He swallows down the lump forming in his throat and says, "My summer with them was like an oasis in the desert; they were kind to me during a time in my life when I was unaccustomed to kindness. And what did I do to repay them? I became everything they stood against, and I laughed at them behind their backs. I never found the courage to stand up to Manfred, to defend these people who had meant so much to me, not even after I'd learned the truth of who he was. He died thinking I held the Costellos in nothing but contempt, and so did Ernie."

"You're wrong," Phoenix says, emphatic and certain.

"Oh?" Edgeworth asks, and there is a hint of anger in his voice. "You have some particular insight into the heart and mind of Ernest Costello, a man you've never even met, never even _heard_ of until less than a week ago?"

Phoenix nods. He feels his own temper flare at Edgeworth's tone, but he pushes it down. With the same calm and cool he feels in court, when he knows he's on the right track, he says, "None of the evidence supports your claim." Edgeworth folds his arms across his chest, looking at Phoenix expectantly. Given this implicit invitation, he continues, "One: They continued to write to you for _years_. I can say from experience that one does not invest that kind of time into someone unless they think their words can make a difference. Two: Eloise called you at four in the morning to let you know that Ernest had passed. Because she knew you would care. Three: We just spent a lovely evening in the Costello home, and Eloise was thrilled to have you, and she didn't have a single ill word to say."

He stares at Edgeworth, waiting for the man to respond, expecting some form of counter-argument. Instead, Edgeworth asks, "But _why?_ I gave them no reason to continue to care, no indication that my silence hid the same affection."

"Because they _loved_ you, Miles. They'd seen the same good in you that I see, and they knew that not even Manfred von Karma could extinguish it."

"You are ridiculous, a sentimental fool," Edgeworth says quietly, blinking rapidly.

"But am I wrong?"

Edgeworth doesn't answer, and Phoenix knows he's won this round. Instead he says, clearing his throat, "The last time I saw Ernie was just after I'd passed the Bar. He was in town on business and wanted to take me out to celebrate. Manfred didn't want me to go, but I convinced him it would be a good move, career-wise. Of course, that wasn't why I wanted to go."

"Of course," Phoenix says, smiling a little.

"We had a short dinner full of stilted conversation. Ernie wanted to behave as though no time had passed, and I didn't know how to do that. I was polite but distant, and I could tell it bothered him, though his smile never slipped. As we parted ways that night, that's when he gave me the copy of _Civil Disobedience_. He was awkward about it; I imagine he'd thought our reunion would have gone a bit smoother." Phoenix nods, encouraging, and Edgeworth continues, "I asked him to sign it. As soon as the words left my mouth, I felt stupid; it wasn't as though I were standing before Thoreau himself. But Ernie's eyes just... lit up. He wrote that he hoped I would never be satisified with the way things were, that I would always strive to make the world better." He shakes his head, smiling ruefully. "I felt so foolish, that this man I so admired thought so much of me. That was the last time I ever saw him."

He takes a deep breath, and Phoenix is quiet beside him. There are no words that will bring Ernie Costello back, there is no way for Edgeworth to tell him how much he was loved, valued, to say all the things that were never said. There is only the guilt lodged in his chest, the empty hollow of mourning and regret, and the knowledge that, over time, this particular pain will fade.


End file.
